


Hole in the Head

by Miaou Jones (miaoujones)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Clubbing, Dancing, F/M, M/M, Sexual Tension, Simulated Orgasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-10
Updated: 2009-05-10
Packaged: 2017-10-14 00:17:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/pseuds/Miaou%20Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Setting out to prove to Roderich how he isn't obsessed with him or anything, Gilbert gets in over his head with a scarf-wearing boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hole in the Head

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [The Hetalia Kink Meme](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com). (Rewritten since for another fandom—if you're looking for the Free! version, it's [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/914294).

It's a month since Gilbert's been here. The flyer by the door says _TONIGHT: DJ ROD_. Someone has written letters after the "Rod," ballpoint lines traced over and over, darkened so it actually says DJ Roderich if you're close enough. Roderich never did thank him for that, did he? And after he made such a fucking fuss about the way the club printed up the sign.

The flyer is bragging about DJ Rod(erich), but that's not why Gilbert came; the fact that the flyer has been saying the same thing for the past four weeks is not why Gilbert stayed away, either. This was his haunt for half a year before DJ Rod(erich) showed up, and if Gilbert has felt like checking out other clubs lately, well, that has nothing to do with the fact that Roderich told Gilbert he's a straight boy just spinning at a gay club for the money, which is his explanation for why he isn't going to let Gilbert take him home and fuck him again.

That's the past, though, yeah? The future is now. _Carpe noctem_ and all that. Seize the fucking night. Gilbert's eyes slit with his internal purr and he grins. The girl about to pass him on the pavement thinks it's for her and she has a nice smile, so he doesn't correct her. Flickering his eyes into focus on her face as they walk by each other, he gives her a smile in return for the one she's given him—a nice start to the evening, a little bit of harmless joy.

There's no line but he pauses outside the door anyhow. Sucking in his stomach, he slips his hand inside his waistband, reaches down to set himself; wonders what Roderich would do if he saw Gilbert like this, hand down his pants and eyes half-mast.

Gilbert's cock twitches and he gives it a reassuring little squeeze before he withdraws. Lets his waistband settle, well below his waist, slung 'round his hips. Lets his breath out and draws it in again, breathing rhythm resuming itself as he enters the club.

No room at the bar but that's all right; he didn't want a drink, he just wanted to prop up. Slipping his hands into his pockets, he rocks lightly on the balls of his feet as he surveys the floor, finally letting his eyes drift to the dj booth and glide up onto:

Not Roderich.

Gilbert keeps looking for a moment, just to be sure—but it's definitely not Roderich. One hand leaves his pocket to rub under his shirt, skin exposed as he stretches out of the rocking and stills. Rubbing his belly, he thinks maybe he'll have a drink now.

He turns to the bar, looks down along the inside, hand coming away from his belly to catch the barkeep's eye, and finds:

Roderich. Standing there at the bar. Just standing there. Like he's waiting or something.

So Gilbert goes. Comes up behind him, and Roderich doesn't turn, and Gilbert thinks that Roderich can't be that unawares—but he is, isn't he? Unawares and unaware, and it's all too easy, all too gorgeously easy: "Hey!", breath so wet he almost licks the word onto the shell of Roderich's ear.

Roderich's drink sloshes and Gilbert grins wider inside as Roderich says, "Hello." Then he chugs what he didn't spill. "I must be going."

"You're spinning tonight, yeah? Or you _going_ going?"

"Music," Roderich says.

"Cool," Gilbert says. His teeth show when he grins.

Roderich doesn't smile back, but he looks long enough to catch Gilbert's smile before he goes. Gilbert watches Roderich enter the booth; watches Roderich get his headphones on. Watches Roderich fiddle with equipment. Watches Roderich shuffle through discs. Watches Roderich not look at him.

Gilbert watches Roderich very, very carefully not watching him.

When Roderich finally looks up to cast out a glance, Gilbert knows the glance is not for him. It _is_ for him, of course—but it doesn't land on him. He follows with his eyes to see where it does land, to see what safe haven outside the box looks like.

It looks pretty.

Just tall enough, or more likely wearing high enough heels to be seen in the crowd. Long hair swept up, movement and gravity tugging at it, encouraging it to tumble down along the curve of neck, over the curve of shoulders. Lots of curves.

Feminine curves. Female and feminine. Safe. And very pretty.

Gilbert smiles and starts to trip his way over to her—but maybe that's too obvious. Maybe he won't go direct; maybe he'll, yeah, linger on over.

There's plenty of pretty, and he dances with it all as he lingers his way to Roderich's pretty.

The girl just laughs when he gets to her. Gilbert can't hear her actual laughter, the soft vibrations subsumed into the heavier thumps of the bass line, but her mouth opens in a smile and there's a small convulsion of her shoulders and chest, an extra bounce to her breasts, even the petals of the yellow flower in her hair quiver, and he's pretty sure it's laughter, and he knows for sure he's been caught. He's been caught glancing, and this girl has eyes in her head, Gilbert can see that; gorgeous eyes, he can't tell what color they are, though maybe he could if he leaned in—but he's not going to. This girl has eyes in her head and she can see that he isn't bothered about the color of her eyes, or in fact about anything but the dj booth.

She laughs when she catches him; she doesn't trap him but doesn't let him go. Grooving to his shimmy, she twists them 'round, slide and step and shimmy and twist—and there's Roderich over her shoulder. She grins and maybe there was a laugh again, but if so it was far too soft for Gilbert to catch; she grins, and it's easy to grin back, and Gilbert does. He smiles at her, for Roderich.

It's easy to smile and move in, to sync up with her. Easy and safe.

Maybe that's the problem. She's safe: safe for Roderich, safe for Gilbert, safe for Roderich to watch Gilbert being safe. Safe not to watch, because of all the safety.

Fuck that, then. Fuck safety.

Gilbert kisses the girl on the cheek as one song bleeds into the next, smooth bleed of beat. Roderich is good. Gilbert turns from the girl, turns from the booth, moving in a new rhythm; moving his eyes across the floor, looking for a little dangerous. His eyes sweep the room, vision like soft bristles, gathering up the pretty and pushing it into the corner, out of the way. Sweeping smooth, searching for the bump, the pretty that can't be swept.

It's thick-going on the dance floor tonight, like walking in water up to your waist. Gilbert hitches his step, twists and slides instead of pushing, and the crowd is still thick but the going is smoother. He wonders if this is how swimming was invented—someone thought to dance in water. He wonders, too, if what he's feeling is what DJ Roderich sees from up in the booth every night, what he's seeing right now: a human body of water, flowing and dipping and swelling.

Gilbert swims. Even when he feels toes on his heel, an elbow in his ribs, hands on his hips, he glides through. No danger of drowning. No danger at all.

He doesn't look at the booth. He wonders if Roderich is looking at him not look.

Then he thuds up against something—something blond and pretty that doesn't sweep away with the flow or the soft bristles of vision or any other metaphor Gilbert has mixed himself up in tonight. He stops swimming and, feet on the ground, goes over.

Blond-and-pretty is at the edge, and Gilbert's almost there himself, prickling with each step. The prickling starts to niggle him, 'cause it's not in his skin or his blood, it's in his brain. Then blond-and-pretty turns in profile, shoulder-length hair sweeping away from his face, little bit of stubble on his chin like he's left it there by design, and fuck yeah, the prickle flares and Gilbert's brain is on fire, and this is definitely danger—

As in Red Alert, Sound The Air Horn: You Fucked That Boy Two Weeks Ago And Never Called Like You Said You Would.

Blond-and-Pretty (and Gilbert can't remember his name, although he knows the boy made a point of telling him as he wrote it on the scrap of paper that Gilbert couldn't even be bothered to throw out, and that is probably stuck to some other scrap of paper or maybe to the bottom of a gummed-up sole, maybe got trodden through the flat and out into the street, but actually, brain, there is no time to imagine the adventures of a scrap of paper right now, thanks!) is not turning in profile: he is turning all the way around.

Gilbert turns himself, twisting and sinking to the floor.

The boy next to Gilbert goes from amused to concerned. He's still smiling, but there's concern in the eyes behind those glasses as he says something that is probably, "you okay?" or a variation. This one is blond, too, though Gilbert's never seen him before. He has a hair doink—thicker, shorter, not as curly as the one his brother's boyfriend has, but Gilbert knows a hair doink when he sees one. Every time he sees one, he wants to pull it. Sometimes Feliciano cries when Gilbert pulls his doink, but Gilbert thinks he secretly likes it.

Still smiling, the boy next to him leans down with gloved hand extended. Gilbert doesn't really want the hand. He wants to stay down awhile longer to check out the view from here, all other considerations aside. It's not that he hasn't been sat on his arse on a dance floor (technically he's on his heels now, but near enough), it's just that he's never been in a state to give it critical consideration.

He doesn't really want the hand, but he kind of does want to pull that hair doink. So up he goes.

"You okay, man?" The boy grins at him. His grin fucking _dominates_. Gilbert doesn't know how he even managed to notice the boy's hair doink when the boy has a grin like this. He wonders how that grin will look curved around his cock.

Gilbert is about to grin back when someone else answers for him, "He's fine"; an unmistakably possessive hand goes to the small of Grinning Boy's back.

The first thing Gilbert sees when he looks over is a pair of recognizable eyebrows. He doesn't know this guy that well, but Gilbert's seen him around. Seen him in fights, and he knows this guy can be vicious when pushed. Gilbert likes a good brawl as much as the next guy, but that's not the kind of danger he's on the prowl for tonight.

Where, Gilbert thinks as he shrugs a thanks to Grinning Boy and doesn't turn around to see if he's been seen by Blond-and-Pretty; where the fuck, he thinks as he doesn't swim or dance, doesn't spin or shimmy, he just fucking goes—where is the favorable danger?

Need a drink, Gilbert decides. He usually doesn't drink when he needs one, only when he wants one, to keep it fun and pleasure, not to become a slave to need or need's cousin, misplaced desire. But this time, just this once, Gilbert reckons it's all right to give in to need.

He's patiently slouched at the corner of the bar when the mirror flickers; the flickers reflect themselves onto Gilbert, crawl over his skin and through the pores down into his blood, and Gilbert turns around—and sees dangerous.

Most favorable dangerous.

Fucking perfect dangerous. Fucking perfect everything. Awesomely tall, wearing nothing above the waist but a scarf, so long that even wrapped 'round his throat a few times and tossed over his shoulders, the ends still dangle down past the backs of his knees. Normally that'd just be pretentious and irritating, but this boy isn't normal. He's fucking sculpted—but he's not a statue, no, he knows how to move; he knows how to move in his skin, like he's doing right now.

He's moving on the dance floor and Gilbert supposes you could call that dancing, if you've no imagination. Gilbert imagines Scarf Boy is fucking the air around him. Scarf Boy is well into it now, the dance, the floor, the crowd, but Gilbert can still see him—Scarf Boy is the perfect height to rub up against and be seen rubbing up against. He's vibing it: _Come rub up against me, if you dare._

Gilbert has never been one to turn down a dare.

He keeps his eyes on Scarf Boy as he approaches. Others, nearer to start, have approached as well, and Scarf Boy is dancing with all of them and somehow with none of them. They're rubbing up against him, but when Gilbert slides his eyes back up to Scarf Boy's face, he sees there that none of them are really touching him.

Gilbert's eyes lock with Scarf Boy's when he enters Scarf Boy's space. There are other boys and girls between them, but they're just atoms, molecules vibrating in the air. Gilbert doesn't dance with any of the boys and girls that Scarf Boy isn't dancing with; Gilbert dances with the vibrating air, rubbing up against the same vibrations Scarf Boy is.

Scarf Boy smiles, sharp perfect flash of teeth, and slides to Gilbert through the air, parting the molecules before him. It's a glide and something like a slither. This boy is almost purely reptilian, and even before his hand touches Gilbert, exposed in the stretch of arms overhead—oh, but Scarf Boy doesn't touch that bellyflash of skin: he goes for Gilbert's overhead wrist instead. Winding his fingers 'round, Scarf Boy presses against bone, presses against pulse. And just like Gilbert knew he would be, Scarf Boy is warm. Reptilian blood warmed by all the heat around him.

What's your name? Gilbert wants to ask. Can't keep calling you "Scarf Boy." But even though he can't, he does.

Molecules, Gilbert thinks as Scarf Boy rubs his thumb over the jutting bone at the side of Gilbert's wrist. Molecules and atoms and lower down (and Scarf Boy is moving lower down, his fingers slipping down Gilbert's arm, over skin not slick but damp with dance-sweat) sub-atomic particles. Quarks. A world where "can't" and "does" are simultaneous, sharing the same space at the same time, opposite and one at once. Gilbert doesn't really understand physics but there's a beauty there, and even though Gilbert doesn't really understand beauty either, he can appreciate it.

Scarf Boy's fingers trip off his arm, along his shoulder and 'round back. Gilbert arches concave, chin tilting up to create a soft pocket of skin at his nape. Accepting the invitation, Scarf Boy snugs his thumb in the folds of Gilbert's skin and rubs.

Gilbert exhales when Scarf Boy lets go. He's sure he was breathing the whole time, but he doesn't specifically remember. Scarf Boy moves his hands to Gilbert's hips, but instead of moving Gilbert, he moves himself to Gilbert's rhythm, the one found in the bones of Gilbert's hips.

Keeping his arms overhead, Gilbert arches, pull and stretch of muscles through his torso, flickerings of strain as he bends himself back, cock vibrating with the beat, thickening with the weight of the bass line. Gilbert is upside-down and he can't see anything clearly and his head's heavier with blood than his cock; but he's not going to fall. Hands splayed at the small of his back tell him that he's not going to fall, not right now. You can let go, the fingers tell him through his skin. So Gilbert does.

Gilbert lets the hands bring him right-side-up. His gaze back to Scarf Boy, Gilbert smiles.

Scarf Boy smiles, too, and Gilbert's not sure that it's for him or who it's for, because it's a gorgeous flash—but it doesn't seep into Gilbert's skin, doesn't join the flow of blood through aorta and ventricle, doesn't curl around his heart or lungs or small intestine or any of his organs.

Then Scarf Boy's hands fetch Gilbert to him, close enough for Gilbert to feel Scarf Boy's cock with his own even through the molecules of denim and cotton between them, molecules of air pressed flat. Those molecules carry their vibrations to each other, the hum and heat of blood-swelled cocks. And there in Scarf Boy's cock, Gilbert feels it: Scarf Boy's blood-swollen smile, for him.

He feels a prickling on the back of his neck, and then not any sort of smile there but lips. Not, obviously, Scarf Boy's. And not, of course (quick glance to be sure), Roderich's. Then Scarf Boy spins him 'round and Gilbert looks over his shoulder and sees the fucked blond prettyboy from New Year's. Gilbert looks at him because prettyboy is in his line of sight, not for any special reason or in any special way, and he wonders if prettyboy can feel it, the lack of anything special at all here.

When Gilbert lets his gaze drift back and it crosses prettyboy's face again, he sees that prettyboy is still looking at him, whether he gets it or not. Gilbert drifts by.

They're dancing, him and Scarf Boy, belly to belly, not grinding, not quite, not yet; they're dancing. Gilbert splays his fingers over Scarf Boy's hips for show, and then for support as he shimmies down into a crouch and tongues the button of Scarf Boy's zip.

Smiling against the crotch he's nuzzling, Gilbert lifts the denim flap with his tongue and licks the metal teeth beneath it. He wonders what Roderich is doing with his teeth right now. Pulling at his lower lip, maybe, or pushing his tongue against the backs of them. Or maybe he's clenching them, just a little, even when he looks away from Gilbert and Scarf Boy. Gilbert wonders if Roderich can taste the sight of Gilbert on his teeth.

Gilbert still doesn't look at Roderich as he slides back up. He looks at Scarf Boy, grinds against and with him, unable to tell which of them is harder. Scarf Boy goes into an arch, dragging his hands up his own body, over the curved stretch of his torso, and the light catches his skin so that Gilbert can see the glistening. Gilbert wants to lick it, but he settles instead for swiping his finger over it, feeling the slick warmth, the tremor along the skin. He licks Scarf Boy's sweat off his fingertip. Watching Scarf Boy watching him through half-lidded eyes, Gilbert feels the shiver and smile and scorch of his cock.

Gilbert slips his mouth off his finger and rubs along his lip as he turns to glance, maybe to catch—

Roderich. Oh, Roderich. What. The. Fuck. What are you doing in that booth with that girl? She's pretty, yeah; _really_ pretty, as pretty as that flower in her hair. But you know you don't want her, don't you? Do you really not know?

A growl swells at the base of Gilbert's throat; he traps it there but it wriggles and a part of it gets free, coming out a frustrated whine. He pushes it back down. He forgets the pretense of dancing and pushes against Scarf Boy. Maybe he'll push inside later, in the gents—push his cock into Scarf Boy's mouth or maybe his arse. But for now, Gilbert just pushes.

Scarf Boy leans into him, not with his hips and not his whole body, but with his face, vodka-warmed breath on Gilbert's cheek. "You want me to come?"

It's not all hot, breathy sex. There's something weirdly sweet buoying up the words. Turning now, Gilbert searches Scarf Boy's face silently.

Scarf Boy smiles and shrugs. "I can come, if you are wanting that."

"Can you really?"

"No." Scarf Boy laughs; his eyes flicker invitingly towards the booth. "But I can make him think I did."

He cocks a grin at Gilbert. Sweet; sweet and a little rotten, a smile that could hollow you out, and Gilbert thinks this Boy is like a hole in the head—but Gilbert has always had a sweet tooth, so he returns the grin. "If you can do that," Gilbert says, "I'll get you off for serious in the gents."

Scarf Boy smiles again and shakes his head; the negative vibrates down to the ends of his scarf, making them flutter. "I want to go back to your place."

Gilbert looks him up and down, then casts a surreptitious glance at Roderich with that girl, Roderich thinking he's back on safe ground. "Okay then," Gilbert says to Scarf Boy. "Make it good."

With the opening beat of the next song, Scarf Boy turns his head and tilts his mouth to bite the side of Gilbert's thumb. Something coils in Gilbert's balls. Scarf Boy's teeth are pressing right at the edge of the nail the way Gilbert sometimes bites his own thumb, and he can't remember if he bit it that way tonight or if this is coincidence.

The coil in his balls tightens convulsively and it's not just the teeth, it's the song: Gilbert recognizes it now and he wonders if Roderich remembers fisting Gilbert's hair to this song as he came down Gilbert's throat.

Gilbert knows he shouldn't look, not yet, not fucking yet.

Their eyes meet.

Roderich is looking at him, but somehow Gilbert is the one who feels caught. Roderich is touching that girl and letting her touch him and looking at Gilbert, and Gilbert's teeth bite down onto nothing but themselves. Roderich is touching that girl like, well, Gilbert doesn't know what, and he's pretty sure Roderich doesn't know, either; Gilbert knows he's touching Scarf Boy, but at least he knows what he's doing with Scarf Boy, and at least Scarf Boy is a boy, has a cock and knows how to use it, and none of this is making sense, even in Gilbert's own head. The only part— _what the fuck, Roderich, what the fuck are you looking at?_ —the only part that makes sense is that Scarf Boy has a cock and he knows how use it, and he's going to come for Gilbert, fuck yes.

Gilbert's teeth grind against each other, crushing all the molecules between them into nothing; he wants to grind everything into nothing right now, and he thrusts his hips against Scarf Boy. There's a wet drag of flesh as he draws his thumb from Scarf Boy's teeth and brings it to his own mouth; he mashes against Scarf Boy's body and holds Roderich's gaze and bites down on his thumb. The skin tears, yielding a little bit of blood; he licks it from his thumb and tears his eyes from Roderich's, gives his gaze to Scarf Boy, keeps his blood for himself. Grinds.

Gilbert doesn't look at Roderich now. He doesn't look at Roderich looking or not looking or whatever the fuck Roderich is doing. Gilbert just looks at Scarf Boy, who is looking at him beneath closed eyes. Gilbert can feel the gaze. He feels Scarf Boy's blind cock, too, hard against him. Gilbert's pretty sure he's harder than Scarf Boy, but it's difficult to tell, cock-to-cock and all this denim between them, denim and whatever material Scarf Boy is wearing beneath his jeans, if anything.

Suddenly Gilbert has to know how many molecules are between his cock and Scarf Boy's, so he slides his middle finger down Scarf Boy's back and Scarf Boy shivers, undulating for show— _yeah, show him_. But Gilbert doesn't look to see if Roderich sees what he's being shown. Gilbert slides his finger down and he doesn't stop when he bumps into Scarf Boy's waistband; he goes beneath it, along skin warmer and damper, sliding sweat-slick along Scarf Boy's crack. Nothing but Scarf Boy here.

Curving his finger to a sharper angle than the curve of Scarf Boy's arse, Gilbert pushes, and it's not for show, this jerk and undulation. Scarf Boy's open mouth opens wider, and Gilbert skims his glance from Scarf Boy's teeth to Scarf Boy's open eyes; Scarf Boy stares down and Gilbert stares up with his eyes and his own bared teeth. Scarf Boy doesn't blink. His eyes are violet. Vanity lenses, they look good on him. Behind his own scarlet lenses, Gilbert's eyes glitter.

Scarf Boy flickers into a smile and licks his upper lip, slow and smooth, lingering at the corner before he pulls his tongue back inside his mouth.

It's sexy, the slow and smooth of it. It's what Gilbert had thought he wanted. But now that he's seeing it, it's torment. It's tormenting _him_ , not Roderich, which is what Gilbert wants: Roderich, tormented and writhing with the torment, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

Gilbert can't spare Roderich a glance now to see whether he's tormented or not. He pushes his thrilled cock against Scarf Boy, this dangerous boy. Fingers curled in Scarf Boy's belt loops, he tugs down, bending Scarf Boy to him, bending his knees to control Scarf Boy's movements, bringing Scarf Boy where Gilbert wants him, face-to-face. Going with Gilbert's pushing and pulling, Scarf Boy winks at Gilbert, and Gilbert shivers, not in control.

Gilbert feels a little dangerous himself. He's his own danger tonight. He holds Scarf Boy here where he wants him, not above Gilbert and not kneeling, not yet, because when Scarf Boy kneels—and he will—it will not be for show. It will be for Gilbert. Gilbert holds Scarf Boy here and twists to glance dangerously over his own shoulder.

His gaze hits Roderich low, striking his belly before his eyes. That girl's hand is on Roderich's belly; her other hand is lower, just inside—

Gilbert snaps away.

Eyes closed, he leans into Scarf Boy and moves his mouth not against Scarf Boy's, but against the molecules of air darting in and out of Scarf Boy's mouth. "Now. Need it now"—fuck, oh _fuck_ , fuck you, Roderich.

Scarf Boy tips his head back in assent. He keeps tipping as he rises, neck arching, throat exposed, and it's almost like obedience. But Gilbert knows it's only part of the show. He knows in his head—but his cock, believing the show, arches and curves hard, trapped; with a low growl, Gilbert vocalizes the vibrations of his trapped cock.

Scarf Boy's body follows the arch he has started. His fingers slide up his own body, occasionally slipping onto Gilbert's; his hands glide over his skin and through the air and meet each other overhead, crossing at the wrists and holding there for a heartbeat, and another. Then Scarf Boy's hands slice down, heavier than the vibrating molecules of air, and re-cross low at his back. His torso ripples with the undulations. His head tips back, his upturned brow knits smooth serenity into something else, hooking vibrations out of the air, weaving rapture onto his face.

A vein throbs along the arched side of Scarf Boy's throat and Gilbert wishes Roderich were close enough to see it—but Roderich is far away, too far away for this, so Gilbert takes the vein for himself. He presses his finger hard to the pulse: the pulse throbs beneath him, Scarf Boy and his blood thrum.

Scarf Boy's body starts to jerk to the rhythm of his pulse. He goes out of rhythm with the bass line in favor of obeying the pulse in Gilbert's fingertip. Scarf Boy's orgasm is at the tip of Gilbert's finger and Gilbert slides along it, caresses and scrapes, drops his hand away and licks the thrum, mouths Scarf Boy's pulsation, bites down. He feels Scarf Boy spasming, all out of rhythm, going all out—

Gilbert leans back and watches Scarf Boy twist and shudder to completion.

Complete illusion: Scarf Boy is still hard when he brushes in against Gilbert, like his cock needs to tell Gilbert's a secret.

Then Scarf Boy is twisting down, slow and smooth, until he's on his knees, gazing up at Gilbert, lips curling into a smile only Gilbert can see. Scarf Boy smiles and Gilbert shudders, feeling those teeth.

Gilbert reaches down and twists into strands of hair, pulling Scarf Boy up by them. Letting his fingers drip down Scarf Boy's back, Gilbert slips beneath denim, over skin and the ridge of hip bone. His fingers dig into the bone; his other hand brushes over his own cock, and he thinks his blood is harder than marrow, his cock is harder than bone. "Gents," he whispers, leaning up to Scarf Boy.

Scarf Boy shakes his head. "Yours."

Gilbert starts to growl—but Scarf Boy's arm has snaked 'round him when he wasn't looking. Scarf Boy is under his denim; he pinches Gilbert's bone, and Gilbert whines. "Yours," Scarf Boy says, and Gilbert looks at him.

He looks at Scarf Boy; even when his eyes flicker, they stay on Scarf Boy.

Only when they're outside does Gilbert look back. Just once. Scarf Boy laughs, and Gilbert thinks, fuck you. He doesn't know whether he means it for Scarf Boy or Roderich or himself. Fuck you, he thinks again, and smiles anyhow.


End file.
